


Steady

by SeekingIdlewild



Series: Crossing Orbits [2]
Category: Stargate Universe
Genre: M/M, POV First Person, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-29
Updated: 2014-05-29
Packaged: 2018-01-26 23:57:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1707272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeekingIdlewild/pseuds/SeekingIdlewild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young's life is in Rush's bloodstained hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Steady

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet is a follow-up to [Breakable](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1679537). This is the second in a three-part series of ficlets from Young's POV about his evolving perception of Rush.

Your hands are steady, nimble, and strong.  As I slowly claw my way out of the sticky darkness that coats my thoughts like pitch, your touch is the first thing I become aware of.  I don't know what's happened and I have no clue where I am, but through the fog of confusion and fear and pain, I feel your hands on me.  And a sense of peace flows like water through the muddled agony in my mind, because I know that when I open my eyes I'll see your calm gaze and your bright halo of golden hair, and I'll know that I'm in good hands.

But that isn’t what I see when I open my eyes.

Instead, I see a lean, wiry figure hunched over me.  I see a tanned forehead wrinkled in concentration.  I see an unkempt beard and sunken dark eyes and strands of hair, grizzled and dampened by sweat, sweeping against prominent cheekbones. 

You are not TJ.  You are Dr. Nicholas Rush, and my sense of peace has just evaporated.

I catch sight of your hands.  Steady, nimble, and strong, and coated with blood.  My blood.  And it hits me all at once that _this_ is how it ends between us.  After years of arguments, intrigue, fist fights, mutiny, and attempted murder, it all comes down to this moment.  I'm on the ground, and your hands are painted red, and you're staring down at me with regret as if you take no pleasure in your victory.  And maybe you don't.  Because it's never been about revenge for you, has it?  It's always been about the greater good.  If only we could have agreed on exactly what that meant, we could have avoided this outcome.  I wouldn't be dying, and you wouldn't be my killer.

Naturally, this is the moment when my long-dormant self-preservation instincts suddenly go on high alert.  Just hours ago, I might have told you that death would come as a welcome relief.  I might even have meant it.  But now, disoriented, immobile, and half out of my mind with pain, the realization unfurls like the first buds of spring after a long, cold, numbing winter: I want to live.  Fuck.  Oh, _fuck_.

Please.  I want to live.

I feel your fingertips, calloused and warm against my neck.  You lean in closer, and I notice for the first time that you aren't wearing your undershirt.  There are streaks of blood on your bare forearms.  I stare at them because I cannot look into your eyes, and because I am confused by the absence of your white shirt.  It's such a trivial detail, but it seems important.  Little things often seem momentous in that shadowy no-man's-land between life and death.  I know; I've been here before.

Your voice cuts through my reflections, low and hoarse.  "Stay with me, Colonel."

I'm not sure what to do with that, or what to think.  Your touch is steady and your voice is soft and you're asking me to stay.  With you.  So now I have to reevaluate everything.  Because your hands are covered in my blood, and your undershirt is missing, and I've suddenly realized that mine is too, and what does that add up to? 

With a monumental effort, I lift my head just enough to peer down at my abdomen, where that shrieking, fog-inducing pain seems to reside.  My torso has been tightly wrapped in bloodied strips of black and white cloth.  I'm no medic, but it looks like decent work, considering that it was accomplished with nothing more than two ripped-up t-shirts.  And so my first impression, while not quite accurate, was not completely false.  You are not TJ.  You are not calm green eyes and golden hair and serene strength.  Nevertheless I am still, apparently, in good hands.

"Would you look at that, now," you say, indicating the makeshift bandages with a nod, and your tone is an odd mixture of amusement and reproach.  You sound like you know exactly what I've been thinking and fearing.  Your fingers are still on my neck, no longer checking for a pulse but applying gentle pressure to encourage me to lower my head once more.  I give in, because even that small effort has left me extremely dizzy.  Shadows lurk at the corners of my vision.

"Report," I say, because I still have no fucking clue what happened or where we are.  Not on Destiny, that much is clear.  The air is too fresh and smells faintly of damp earth, and the hard surface under my head is too rough to be deck plating.  I can see by your rueful grimace that you don't appreciate being addressed like military personnel, but you're just going to have to deal with it.  Attempting to talk, it turns out, is only slightly more pleasant than attempting to move, so I'm sticking with one-word sentences for now.

You seem to be in the mood to humor me for once in your goddamn life.  Maybe I should have near-death experiences more often.  They appear to do wonders for your disposition.  "Well, to begin, the abandoned ruins we came to explore weren't actually abandoned," you say. "They never are, are they?  Eli's right about that."  True, Eli's cynicism is usually completely justified when it comes to away missions, but you digress, and that's somewhat out of character for you.  You also seem to be operating under the false assumption that I can recall anything about whatever ruins you're referring to, when in fact the last thing I remember is sitting in the mess eating a bowl of slop when Destiny dropped out of FTL.  Even that memory is growing hazier by the second.

"We were attacked," you continue with one of your subtle head tosses.  I've always wondered whether that habitual motion is actually intended to shake your hair from your eyes, or whether it's an indicator of your mood.  If it's the former, it never seems to be very effective.  And damn it, I'm very distractible right now.  I wish I could just _focus_.  "We got separated from the rest of the team, and you were shot.  Fortunately for you, your wound was partially cauterized by the blast.  You'd have bled out otherwise."

I don't really want to contemplate what that wound must look like.  Charred _and_ bloody, like unevenly cooked steak.  You must have a stronger stomach than I'd have given you credit for.

"Thanks," I rasp, and it sounds pathetically inadequate.  I want to say more.  I want to ask more.  I want to know where we are, because it looks like we're in some sort of cave or partially-collapsed tunnel.  I want to know how you managed to get me to safety, or where the rest of the team is, or whether anyone else was hurt.  But I can only manage the one word.  Darkness is seeping into my mind, sucking me back down by slow degrees.

"Thank me when we're back on Destiny," you reply, and it sounds like a promise. 

I think this moment might be important.  I only wish I could cut through the increasing sluggishness of my thoughts so that I could truly appreciate it.  I've never been in this position before, with not just my life in your hands but _all over_ your hands.  My blood connects us.  It would have been an intimate murder.  But maybe this is a deeper kind of intimacy.  I'm fading fast, and I'm leaving all the weight of my cares upon your tense shoulders.  I'm trusting you, Rush.  This is trust.

I remember the last time you made me a solemn promise.  You were battered and subdued, and you gave me your word that our enmity was behind us.  When we got back to Destiny that night, I scrubbed your blood out from under my fingernails.  Maybe that's just how we make promises, you and I.  Blood pacts.

"Colonel?" you murmur.  I feel your touch upon my neck once more.  "Come on.  Stay with me."

I'm trying, but it feels like the ground under me is losing its solidity.  It ripples like water, and I'm floating.   I'm going to float away in a moment or two.  My vision is cloudy and peeling away along the edges, like an old photograph.  Your face is just a blur, but your hands are still red. 

"Colonel," you say more firmly.

I'm here.  I'm not dying.  I _hope_ I'm not dying.  But the pain is too distracting and my thoughts are too scattered and I really can't stay.  Not going to happen.  Not even a liberal application of your legendary will is going to keep me conscious right now.

"No, open your eyes.  Just for a few more minutes.  The others are on their way.  They'll be here soon." 

The water is thick, and it smells of iron.

"Colonel Young."

Blood pacts.  Blood pacts, and steady hands.  Your fingertips on my neck.

" _Colonel._ "

Just remember, Rush.  I'm trusting you.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are very welcome.
> 
> For updates about my writing, and for general fandom-related squeeing, please visit me on [Tumblr](http://seekingidlewild.tumblr.com/)!


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